


Raised

by Slanguage



Series: The Righteous Man [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Apocalypse, Demons, M/M, Righteous Man Series, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slanguage/pseuds/Slanguage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak never would have guessed being the Righteous Man would mean this.</p><p>Saddled with a foreign angelic grace, burdened with a newfound betrayal of a friend, Castiel has to come to terms with who the angels have been training him to be, and what his role means in the apocalypse as Lucifer walks free, turning his and the Winchesters’ world upside-down. Castiel has so much at stake—his life, the lives of the people he loves, his loyalty toward the humans he no longer walks with—and he knows that he is going to lose everything with the end of days.</p><p>Castiel has to pick a side—Heaven or Hell, Dean or Sam Winchester, his duty as the Righteous Man or free will—and the aftershocks of his final choice will send the world to its knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hey Brother

He would never forget the feeling of falling.

He would never forget the terror on the Winchester brothers’ faces when they looked to the opening cage, and Lucifer began to climb free.

He would never forget how easy it was to save them, and how much he wished he had the power to do so before. He would never forget the feeling that he was now on the outside, looking in; he as one of the monsters saved the Winchesters from themselves, from something he hadn’t been there to help them with. He would never forget his own shame when he looked into Lucifer’s grace, and knew that he had brought on a war.

Castiel wondered if that had been Heaven’s intention.

Heaven never wanted him to forget.

*

He fell to his knees in the middle of a forest somewhere he wasn’t sure where, the stars bright against the night sky, foreign wings heavy on his back, and he didn’t get back up for a long time.

Everything had gone so wrong.

Everything was so wrong.

Castiel knew from the moment he swore his loyalty to the angels and Anna that this would not end the way he wanted it, but he had no idea it could go this far off of the reservation. He never knew that this could happen, that being the Righteous Man meant this—a weight of wings on his back, a burning grace beneath his skin, seeing into the invisible layers of the world around him. He never knew that being on the side of the angels would mean that they would take away that his humanity. That they would force him into being one of them.

Castiel should have expected this kind of betrayal from Anna.

Castiel let out a choked, angry sound. He slammed his fist into the earth, and he flinched away when the branches of the trees around him shook with the force, and birds vacated their covers and took flight, spooked. Castiel watched their wings beat against the wind, and he wanted to scream because he felt his wings straining for use and he knew he could now follow behind them.

Castiel reached up, gripping his hair.

He should have known.

The world was just—it was so different, this way, in the way that angels could see it. It wasn’t just the world he knew, but that was part of it, one little piece in the puzzle. If he focused, he could see everything—the history of the rock, the life of the trees, the movement of the earth slowly rotating around the sun. He knew what way the wind was blowing and he knew that it would begin to slow around morning. He knew that a child was dying of disease in Africa and that an old man was about to fall asleep for the final time in Canada. Without being able to understand, Castiel felt and knew it all, feeling it like the pulse of a heartbeat underneath of the rock, the world moving onward. He had always thought of angels as guardians, but now he could see that the world didn’t need their help to move on, to move into the next moments, the next days, the next forever. The angels, all of this time, had been overseers. Watching, patient but bored.

Castiel had only been this way for a few hours, cowering in a forest to hide from what he had become, but he already could understand why some of them would want to watch this world burn.

Human nature was so precious, so—predictable. They made the same mistakes over and over and they never knew how to make it better. They all scrambled to be the best person they could, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and they fall short every time.

What torture it must have been, for angels to watch God’s greatest creations fail, time and time again. What a betrayal that must have felt like, to have to love these things more than your Father, when they are so flawed and broken.

And yet.

Castiel could feel life being born even as some souls passed on to eternity, like the beautiful dawn of a day, changing every timeline for the better, blessing it with a new amazing addition. Castiel could feel couples all over the world falling in love, getting married. He could feel a mother’s love and a father’s joy and a woman’s laugh and a man’s devotion and he was filled completely with all of this, overwhelmed but underwhelmed all at once, wanting to protect them all. They would make mistakes, but, really, they were perfect. Humanity, despite those mistakes, continued to press on, to try and make the world a better place, to lead lives they could be happy and proud of in their final days, when their souls are carried gently into the afterlife and memories are all that are left behind.

He didn’t have to breathe, but he did anyway. He breathed in life, and he breathed in love, and he breathed out a baby’s first smile.

Life was so precious. Life was so worthwhile.

Castiel no longer had one of his own, but at least others did. At least, this way, he should be able to save them, even if he burned to death slowly, even if the grace began to slowly eat him away. Castiel could fight if it meant preserving lives for all of the people who had their whole futures ahead of them, for the people with their roots barely in the ground, lives intersecting like a web. Castiel knew he wasn’t okay, knew that all of this wasn’t okay, but there was at least something to hope for, to live for, tucked in the back of his mind. Maybe that wasn’t too terrible.

A twig snapped in the trees, and Castiel knew he couldn’t stay there.

He figured, all things considered, nothing could kill him. A bear or tiger or whatever native to wherever he was—the warmth of his grace reached out and soothed him, _northern Maine_ —could maul him and he would be able to walk away and heal himself with no problem. He felt like power, like an electric charge shoved into a human body, and he knew that nature or people would not be able to kill him without the right weapon. Monsters wouldn’t even be much of a threat. But he knew it wasn’t ghosts and ghouls that he should be afraid of.

Castiel staggered onto his feet, uneasy with the weight of the wings, and pulled the angel blade from his trench coat, brandishing it like a dagger.

“Come on,” he growled, feeling sick and heavy and filled with dread and light, the churn of betrayal in his stomach heightening to paranoia. He turned slowly, appraising the trees and what he would be able to know inside of them if he just allowed himself, but he was happier looking like a madman, happier to act like a human than to let himself accept that he was a celestial being. “Come on out and face me. Come _on_.”

A doe poked her head out of a shrub, eyes wide, stance defensive. Castiel immediately dropped the sword to his side, his shoulders relaxing, and he took a deep breath.

He felt like he was being suffocated, over-stimulated by the entire world, which he could feel all at once. And he needed to move.

He needed to find the Winchesters.

He didn’t know how much time had passed since he had thrown the two of them onto that airplane, safe and sound and pure— _twenty-nine hours, fourteen minutes_ , his grace assured him—and he was sure they must be worrying about what had happened to him. He thought about the last time he had seen Dean, frantically pushing him to the door as the bright angel grace lit the room, telling him in a choked voice, _I’ll hold them off, I’ll hold them all off!_ He remembered Dean’s devastated expression as he hovered, not knowing whether he should save Castiel or save Sam. And then the light became too much, and Castiel yelled again and, by the time Anna and the others appeared, Dean was already gone.

And then he had been in the chapel. He and Sam had accidentally rose Lucifer from his cage, letting him walk on earth, and there was a tremor in the earth that still feared him, that worried for what would happen now that he was free. And Dean and Sam were alive, but what would they think about Castiel?

He knew that Dean would never look at him the same way. Castiel didn’t know what Dean thought happened to him, but he knew he would not be too pleased seeing him like this. Or maybe he would. With Dean, it was always so hot and cold, always a perpetual maybe. Dean would either push him away, or would hold him closer. Either way, Castiel would stay, and he would protect him. He would protect _them_. With whatever it took.

And, now, he had the juice to protect them from anything. That should make him feel happy, proud—protecting them was all he had ever wanted to do—but, instead, it just made him feel empty.

Sam would tiptoe around him, not knowing what to say, wanting to apologize but not sure how, wanting to treat him like a human but not being able to because he wasn’t one, and it would be stupid to forget it. Castiel would be a weapon, but Sam wouldn’t want to treat him like one. Castiel would be a monster, and Sam would be trying so hard to forget when Castiel not very long ago accused him of being monstrous by drinking demon blood.

Castiel was one of the creatures that they hunt, that they kill. He was of the breeds of supernatural that had turned against them and betrayed them to make the apocalypse come to pass.

He didn’t know what Bobby would do, what he would say. Or Ellen, or Jo if they ever found her wherever she was hunting on the road.

It occurred to Castiel that now he could find anyone, anywhere, with nothing more than a thought. It made him feel sick to his stomach, and he lowered himself back down to sit in the clearing of the forest in silence, his thoughts contaminating him, poisoning him as they wound through his mind one by one.

First of all—most of all—was anger.

He was so fucking angry. For all intents and purposes, the angels had taken his life away from him, _Anna_ had taken his life from him, all for some false sense of righteousness. Castiel had sworn his loyalty to save his friends and he would make the same choice over again, but this—he didn’t want this. He could feel his humanity slipping away, could practically feel his soul being corrupted by the grace in his chest, and Castiel wouldn’t have chosen this.

He could still feel emotions, that little piece of his soul clinging on for dear life, and all he felt was anger and betrayal. Castiel wanted to rage against Heaven, to walk through the gates and slaughter every single one of them he saw, because they didn’t deserve to preside over Earth. They didn’t deserve a piece of what they got, because they were corrupt, and they were doing this to watch this world that God had loved more than them burn. They were rebelling in their own way, doing what they wanted without guidance like moody teenagers, at the cost of billions of lives that meant nothing to them. Castiel was so mad that he would have stood as a one-man army against them all.

He wanted revenge. He could feel the burn of the grace under his skin and he felt Anna’s betrayal like a white-hot brand, and Castiel was so mad that he could understand the songs that came with the wrath of archangels, because it was so _easy_ to be angry, and he had nothing to take it out on.

Castiel stayed in the middle of that forest, and he decided he would hunt down Anna first.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Time didn’t move the same way anymore, less like the ticking of a clock and more like the fluid motion of water moving downhill, but he knew it had been a long time when he felt a tugging in his head, like the pulse of a headache with no pain, and he froze, listening, and then—

Angel radio came into focus with a name he knew better than his own heartbeat.

The name was said in a smug snarl, like the angel was talking about something truly deplorable, and Castiel pushed himself forward, closing his eyes and searching, listening and _searching_ , his wings curling into the air anxiously, itching to take flight. Castiel found the source of the voice, the angel that regarded the Winchesters like trash, and the name _Zachariah_ echoed through his head in a split second. Castiel froze, listening so hard that it was the only thread of angel radio that he could hear, practically seeing through this angel’s eyes, and he saw the Winchester brothers standing before him, cornered and outnumbered, standing defensively at the closed barn-style doors of what seemed to be their father’s lock-up.

Zachariah looked at Dean, and he murmured over the channels of angel radio, _The Michael sword._

Castiel felt cold for the first time since becoming an angel.

The Michael sword.

Michael’s _vessel_.

The three of them were never just hunters to the angels, Anna had said that much. They were never just the three stooges that started the apocalypse. They were more than that. Their destinies were written so much further than the beginning—they were the curtain call. All of them had a part to play in the big finale, and their parts were so much more important than they had realized, bigger than what they had been led to believe.

The rage bubbled under his skin again, and Castiel clenched his jaw to keep from screaming, but then—he didn’t have to.

Because then the scene changed. Zachariah made a move, and Sam was cursing out, hitting the ground, and Dean was yelling and then on his knees coughing up blood, tortured in a way that Castiel had given everything for him not to be, being coerced to say yes in the same way that Castiel had been, and Castiel felt himself moving faster than light in a moment, barreling into the scene with the force of a storm, thunder and lightning cracking in the atmosphere at the force of his rage. Zachariah looked up, confused, as Castiel willed his power to cut out and Sam and Dean were healed, looking up from their spots on the ground, pausing just as Zachariah and his hench-angels were. And then Castiel was landing outside of the doors, and his rage was just too much.

The barn-style doors creaked open, the hanging lights overhead leaking sparks, and Castiel strode through the doors like a prowling tiger, his eyes on the threat and his power almost too much to control.

Somewhere, from where he and Sam were still recovering from the ground, Dean whispered, relieved, confused, “Cas?”

Castiel moved as if he hadn’t heard him, keeping eye contact with Zachariah and strolling step by slow step toward him, feeling his power and grace surging inside of him uncontrollably, more unruly than the storm raging outside. There was the sound of a shotgun firing, and Castiel’s omniscient mind registered it as one of John Winchester’s traps, registering the muffled sound of horror that Dean made when Castiel didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just kept walking. Zachariah looked horrified by the time Castiel reached him, circling him to put the wall to his back, feeling the itch of the angel blade ready to be wielded, but Castiel ignored it. He just stood for a moment in suspended silence with Zachariah, not looking away from the angel wearing a white-haired man, a vessel who hadn’t known to say no, and Castiel’s rage flared again.

“What’s the matter, Zachariah?” Castiel ground out darkly, dangerously, his lips curling into just a hint of a smirk as he practically purred, “Did somebody clip your wings?”

A series of cracking lightning lit up the room, a manifestation of his intent, and Castiel saw, out of the corner of his eye, the wings that spread threateningly out behind him on the wall filled with warding sigils that would not work on his brand of monster. Castiel saw the Winchesters, now standing off in the background, behind Zachariah, and he saw their faces fall, turn pale, at the realization that no—this was not Castiel. Not at all.

Zachariah looked just as pale, but he could see inside of him in a way that the Winchesters couldn’t. So that was why, in the brief lull of the storm surging outside, Zachariah hissed, “ _Lucifer?_ ”

Castiel smiled dryly, but didn’t answer.

“No,” Zachariah said a second later, coming to the realization Castiel knew he would, taking half a step closer to him, an amused smirk curling onto thin lips. “No—that’s part of Lucifer’s grace, but you’re not him.”

Castiel stood still, watching him, as Zachariah dragged this out, aware of their audience clinging to every syllable, aware that he was playing the Winchesters like a fiddle, but Castiel just let him, just stood there and took it, because he knew that nothing bad would happen to the brothers if he was there. He wouldn’t let Zachariah near them.

Right now, the only threat to the Winchesters was Castiel himself.

“Castiel,” Zachariah asked, near laughter, “is that you?”

Castiel didn’t say anything. Zachariah laughed anyway.

“Oh, look at you,” Zachariah said, eyes shining in amusement despite being the one virtually powerless, mocking him even though Castiel held all of the cards. Castiel wasn’t sure if the angel was foolish, or if he knew how this would the end the same way Castiel did. “Oh, Castiel, I’m so glad we met like this. The Righteous Man, fallen so far. Fallen to Earth, if your broken wings are anything to go by.”

Castiel flinched on reflex. The broken bones of his wings tinged painfully.

“Anna always was very creative,” Zachariah said, and Castiel’s rage nearly blinded him just hearing the name. Thunder boomed so loud that it shook the walls.

“Leave, and never approach the Winchesters again,” Castiel growled, his angel blade manifesting in his coat sleeve and sliding down until his fingers closed around the hilt. Zachariah eyed the movement warily. “They will never consent to your war. Not like I did.”

Zachariah looked like he wanted to say something but, instead, he just tilted his head and took a long look at Castiel, seeming almost curious. Castiel stared back, not understanding and not caring enough to try, still gripping the blade in his hand and keeping the other angels of the room in mind, ready to pounce on the first stupid enough to take even a half step closer to the Winchesters. For a moment, nobody moved, not even the brothers. And then Zachariah said, “We’ll see about that.”

In the rush of wings, the three angels were gone, and Castiel was alone in a room with Dean and Sam for the first time since the fight at the hotel.

Castiel turned to look at them. Dean was already staring at him.

“You two need to be more careful,” Castiel heard himself saying.

“Yeah, well, your frat brothers are dicks,” Dean replied, falling into that kind of attitude of his like an involuntary reaction, and Castiel shouldn’t have been surprised to see the storm in Dean’s eyes now that it was calming down outside. Castiel looked away, toward Sam, but that was almost worse, so he looked away again.

“It’s not just about the angels,” Castiel told them, a sneaking suspicion behind his ribs.

“Oh, we know that too,” Dean told him, getting angrier by the second, his jaw clenching tighter and tighter as he tried to control himself. Castiel wanted to tell Dean to do his worst. To take a swing at him, or to shoot as many bullets as he wanted. Castiel felt like he deserved worse. “Guess you’ve got some selective hearing now that you’ve picked your side, huh? Do you know what the last few days have been for us?”

“I didn’t even know it had been days,” Castiel tried to explain, meeting Dean’s gaze head-on. “Believe it or not, it’s hard to keep track when you’re kidnapped, forced to accept an angelic grace under duress, and then falling from Heaven. Do you realize what I’ve done for you, for all of you? This is not my choice, Dean. This is not my side. The Roadhouse burned when I said no. _I_ didn’t have someone to come in and save the day.”

Dean looked at him for a moment, probably thinking about the surprise Castiel faked at hearing Ellen’s news about the Roadhouse, and then said in a deadpan tone, “Bobby’s in the hospital. He got possessed, and gained control just long enough to stab himself. It’s not looking good.”

Castiel had to look away from him, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath before he opened them again, reaching out and putting a hand on each brother’s chest, willing for them to be protected from the angels, invisible from them in a more effective way than a hex bag. Dean and Sam gasped harshly as a flash of heat rolled through Castiel’s hands, and Castiel dropped them as soon as it was done. Sam stumbled away, reaching up to rub the spot, while Dean put both of his hands on his ribcage with an expression like he was offended.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded unkindly.

“An Enochian sigil,” Castiel explained, his brain filled with all the knowledge in the world and more. “It’ll hide you better than a hex bag ever will from every angel in creation. Including Michael and Lucifer. And me.”

Dean looked almost pained for a second before he remembered that he was angry. “What, did you just _brand_ us with it?”

“No. I carved it into your ribs.”

Both brothers simultaneously blinked, looking equally as disturbed.

“It was the easiest way,” Castiel told them, fighting back a smile. And then his smile dropped, and he thought about Bobby and how the angels could be back for any of them at any moment. “You two should start moving. It’s not safe for you here, invisible or not.”

Castiel turned away, but stopped in his tracks when Sam called, “Cas.”

He turned back to them. Sam was watching him, looking nervous but so much healthier, so much in control, and Castiel couldn’t help but to be relieved that at least Dean would have his brother back. Sam hesitated, gazing at Castiel and reading him in a way that only Sam usually could, before his face fell a little bit.

“You really didn’t say yes to this, did you?” Sam asked sadly, seeing that helpless piece of Castiel that was screaming behind the burning grace and this change in perspective, seeing the slump to his shoulders that wasn’t from the added weight of his half-broken wings. “When those angels came, you really said no until you couldn’t anymore.”

Castiel looked at Sam for a moment, and then tried to smile. “I knew that the angels were going to kill me before all of this was over. I just didn’t know they were going to do it slowly.”

Before the brothers could say anything else, Castiel vanished.

He figured that, at least, was a perk.


	2. Sympathy for the Devil

Castiel hesitated outside of the hospital room. There was a clipboard hanging next to the door with Bobby’s name on it and all of his information, and his diagnosis. Castiel stared at it for long moments, people passing him by and paying him no mind, not seeing him because he didn’t want to be seen. He just stared at the doctor’s notations, the information of Bobby’s injuries and that he believed Bobby would never walk again, and felt nausea turning around and around somewhere in his stomach.

Castiel closed his eyes. He could have stopped this. He could have stopped the demons from going after the brothers, could have ripped the bad from Bobby’s body without killing him. Maybe. Castiel wasn’t sure—when he thought of demons, the only real thought he could comprehend was smiting them, so he didn’t know if there was another way. He didn’t know if he could have saved Bobby. But damn should he have tried.

Maybe that was why Dean felt the need to be angry. Because Castiel could have tried harder. He could have said no until the whole world burned; just as long as he hadn’t folded. Just as long as he hadn’t made the choices that left them here.

The grace under Castiel’s skin could feel Lucifer walking. It wondered about him, pulling Castiel into thinking about it. The grace’s was Lucifer’s, really, even if it fit comfortably under Castiel’s skin. This grace was loyal to him, but it would not forget where it came from.

Castiel had to stop and take several more deep breaths that he didn’t need to breathe before he turned the knob under his fingers, and he pushed the door open.

Bobby glanced over from where he had been glaring out the window, an angry frown in place on his face as he expected the doctor or a chipper nurse to come wandering through. When he found Castiel, his face broke out into a relieved smile. It was so rare to see Bobby really smile that the effect of it nearly knocked into Castiel with a physical force. Castiel automatically felt his lips twitch up in response, a human reaction, as he closed the door behind him.

“I heard a bit of what happened,” Castiel informed him, stepping nervously into the room, still so unsure that he was welcome in the lives of the people he left behind. “Are you okay?”

Bobby’s face washed with anger and grief, but he snorted. “Wouldn’t call it fine.”

“What happened?”

Bobby gestured for Castiel to sit in the chair by his bed, a diversion from the conversation. Nonetheless, Castiel approached the bed and sunk into the chair, sitting too straight, uncomfortable, restless. His wings felt like another heartbeat weighing on his back.

Bobby’s hand curled around the railing of his bed.

“Demon got me before I got it,” Bobby finally explained in a clipped tone, enough to let Castiel know that he was only going to get pieces of this explanation. “It possessed me, used me to get to Sam and Dean. I was able to take over when it tried to kill the boys, turned the knife to myself instead. Figured I would rather die than watch myself kill one of them. Would’ve never forgiven myself, you know?”

Castiel nodded slowly, face melting in sympathy.

Bobby looked away.

“That’s not all though, is it?” Castiel asked.

He didn’t need to ask. Even with Dean’s admittance that it hadn’t looked like it was going to be okay for Bobby, even with Bobby’s omission to admit it, Castiel could tell. He looked at Bobby, read his soul, and he knew what was wrong. He didn’t need Bobby or the charts outside to tell him that it looked like he would be paralyzed forever from the waist down, because there was no easy way to say that.

Bobby looked away suddenly, looking toward the window in his room. It overlooked a parking lot, but Bobby didn’t seem to care. He stared out that window like there was something worth looking at, like there was something worth looking toward.

Castiel sat in silence, waiting. Bobby let out an angry, impatient sound.

“If you really wanna know my diagnosis, look at the charts,” the older man snapped, glancing back to Castiel with anger that a thousand years wouldn’t be able to burn out. He was angry at life, at fate. He was angry that he had let the demon smoke into him, and he was angry that this was the only way he could have gotten out of the situation.

Bobby was just angry. Castiel understood a little bit of that.

“Where the hell have you been, kid?” Bobby demanded after a few moments of uneasy silence, neither of them knowing what to say. Castiel looked away from the heart monitor, to the man on the bed before him. Bobby was watching him with a furrowed brow, scowling. Maybe he was taking the first good look at Castiel since he walked through the door, was seeing the suit, and knew that something was up. Warning bells. Castiel figured that any hunter would get that skin-crawling feeling of _something wrong_ whenever they looked at him.

Castiel smiled warily. He felt like he had been everywhere in such a short amount of time. Around the world in one hundred and eighty seconds.

“What has Dean told you?” Castiel deflected instead.

Bobby frowned. He didn’t like that question.

“I only heard about it driving shotgun. Somethin’ ’bout bein’ at Chuck’s, and somethin’ angelic goin’ wrong. Dean said you told him to run and that you’d hold ’em off. Seemed real worried. Dean and Sam stopped back to Chuck’s to get you and Chuck said somethin’ like how you’re probably dead.”

It was Castiel’s turn not to meet Bobby’s eyes. He looked out the window instead. Parking lot or not, it was a decent enough distraction, and it gave him someplace to look.

From the parking lot, a little girl hugged her mom and cried as she was brought into the emergency room. Castiel watched her, thinking _broken leg_. He wanted to go downstairs and heal all of them. He wanted to use his powers to make miracles, to see something good come out of this world dissolving into chaos.

He couldn’t understand how angels could walk among humans. He didn’t know how they wouldn’t want to go out of their way to help every single one of them.

“Cas?” Bobby asked once he was impatient enough.

“Where is Ellen?”

Bobby did not look happy to be getting the run-around, but he still answered Castiel’s question. “She and I split right before that demon jumped me. She went to go look for Jo. We had a good idea where her and her new hunter friends were, so Ellen went out to go get her and tell her what’s happenin’.”

Castiel nodded slowly.

Bobby waited. Castiel considered his words.

“I went to Heaven,” Castiel confessed mildly. “It wasn’t all that nice where they took me, but I think I was behind the scenes. I wonder what it looks like to others.”

Bobby’s gaze practically burned into his skin, but he didn’t look at him.

“Cas?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Cas, what the hell is goin’ on?” Bobby demanded, shaken. Castiel turned to look at him. Bobby was staring at him in worry, panicked confusion in his eyes. Castiel knew he was being a little overdramatic, but he didn’t care. He was just so tired, but he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even rest, couldn’t block out all of the words and feelings of the world in his head. He felt like he had earned the right to be a little overdramatic.

“You trust me if I do something, right?”

“Depends on what you’re askin’,” Bobby allowed, eyeing him with suspicion now, and Castiel thought he saw Bobby’s hand move toward the edge of the bed, where he would more than likely have a weapon.

Castiel knew this was something taboo, something entirely unfair and against the natural order, but he was sick of playing by the same rules. He was beginning to understand why Lucifer would turn against this. Castiel had a feeling that being free on earth might sometimes be worse than the cage the devil had been trapped in.

“It’s okay,” Castiel assured him.

Castiel reached out a hand, hovered over Bobby’s arm, and healed him.

Bobby let in a sharp breath when he started to _feel_ the nerves that had been frayed to never work again, started shaking as a leg twitched under the covers as if the last few days had never happened. Bobby looked at Castiel’s hand glowing over his skin before he looked back at his foot as he moved it around, rotating the bone. Castiel felt his job was complete and pulled his hand back to his body again, closing it into a fist and laying it on his knee. Bobby just continued to stare down at his legs for a long moment, his breaths coming in heaving gasps as if he couldn’t dare to let himself hope.

Bobby barely even let out a gasp as Castiel reached out and carved the same Enochian sigils onto his ribs as he did the Winchesters. Just in case.

He looked back at Castiel, his eyes wide, horrified, grateful. Castiel looked away.

“I think,” Castiel murmured slowly, “that I am just sick of watching bad things happen to good people.”

“Cas,” Bobby said, his eyes suddenly on the ripped clothes around what had been a bullet wound from a Winchester shotgun, and his eyes snapped back up to Castiel’s. His expression shifted between his hunter’s mask and fear.

Castiel just smiled sadly, and shook his head.

“Are you dead?” Bobby demanded shakily. “What the hell is happening?”

“I don’t want to see the look on your face when you know,” Castiel confessed selfishly, and then got up from his chair. Bobby watched him. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Wait,” Bobby said, but Castiel was already invisible, already in the hallway.

Castiel materialized in the waiting room, and collapsed into a chair, holding his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. Not wanting to face reality once he had to. Not wanting to do much of anything.

Not wanting to have to look at himself through other peoples’ eyes and think, _Other_.

~*~

Castiel felt it like a goddamn natural disaster when the Winchesters walked into the building, hearing Dean because he couldn’t sense him, but he didn’t move and he damn well didn’t even make himself visible. He stayed there, where he’d relegated himself to standing in the back corner of the ER watching all of the injured that he wanted to help and heal, and he didn’t follow the brothers when he knew they were navigating to Bobby’s hallway.

Castiel didn’t even move until there was a tugging in the back of his head at the same moment a voice he knew so well asked, _Where are you, Cas?_

Dean was praying.

Castiel was there in milliseconds.

“So,” Sam was in the middle of saying, “let me ask the million-dollar question—what do we do now?”

“Well, we save as many as we can for as long as we can, I guess,” Bobby responded, still in his hospital gown but now with a biker cap on his head, sitting up and looking much more unburdened than the last time Castiel had seen him. It made him want to smile, but that disappeared when Bobby continued gruffly, “It’s bad. Whoever wins, heaven or hell, we’re boned.”

Sam glanced at Dean, who was wearing his mask of stone, looking at Bobby like he wanted to say something but wouldn’t believe anything he would be saying anyway. Castiel took that moment to step in between the layers of the veil, merging into reality from his spot by the doorway.

“What if _we_ win?” Castiel demanded. Sam and Dean jumped, turning to look at him. Bobby didn’t even seem surprised to know he was there. Dean screwed his face back into that mask, but a small expression of relief tugged his lips into a mockery of one of his smiles.

“What?” Sam asked.

“I’m serious,” Castiel replied, beseechingly. “Remember earlier, when I said that we could make our own side? Let’s do this. I mean, screw the angels and their fucked up apocalypse. Hell, they want to fight a war, they can find their own planet, because this one’s ours. They can find their own prophecy, their own vessels. We can take them all on. We kill the devil. We kill _Michael_ if we have to. But we do it our own damn selves.”

“And how are we supposed to do all this, genius?” Bobby demanded.

“No idea,” Castiel responded, and then grinned.

Dean laughed and continued, “I don’t know about you two, but Cas and I’ve both got a GED and a give-‘em-hell attitude. Sammy went to college. We can throw something together out of that.”

“You’re both nine kinds of crazy,” Bobby told them honestly.

“It’s been said.” Dean glanced over to Castiel with a cheeky smirk, even if he looked away too soon. It was progress, it was something shaped like acceptance, and Castiel was willing to take what he could get.

Bobby looked like he wanted to tell them all how stupid they were being but didn’t have the heart to break their spirits. Instead, he just slowly shook his head, smiling at them fondly like maybe, just maybe, their plan could work. And then he just made a shooing motion.

“You kids can get out of here now,” he told them gruffly. “They’re dischargin’ me in a few hours, callin’ me a medical miracle. I don’t need your help right now.”

Bobby’s gaze lingered on Castiel. Castiel casted his eyes to his feet, but he couldn’t help but to smile.

“I’ll call in a few hours, then,” Dean promised, walking over to pat his surrogate father on the shoulder before turning around and walking to the door, brushing against Castiel’s sleeve and practically setting him on fire. Castiel followed his movements, watching this man and knowing that he would keep doing everything and anything to keep him safe.

Sam was turning around to join Dean when Bobby cleared his throat and, in a tone that spoke volumes, said, “Sam?”

Castiel looked up and met Bobby’s eyes, and immediately turned around and followed Dean out the door, closing it behind him. Dean stood in the hallway, not seeming surprised that Castiel was the first one to join him and not Sam.

“Bobby wanna talk to him?” Dean asked, and then nodded, answering his own question before Castiel could. “That’s good. Sam was tearing himself up about it. They got some things to talk about.”

“So do we,” Castiel said before he could stop himself.

Dean turned to face him fully, eyebrows rising. But he was smiling, guilty, his eyes apologetic.

“Yeah,” he said like he was ripping a band-aide from wounded skin. “We should talk, huh?”

Castiel reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling embarrassed. “It doesn’t have to be now.”

“It should,” Dean said, and then laughed a little. “I mean, I hate talking things out, I’m fucking terrible at it, but maybe that’s the problem, right? Sometimes we just don’t talk to each other, and we both end up angry enough to spit, and that’s not helping us at all.”

Castiel stared at Dean, almost surprised. Castiel knew that Dean wasn’t as emotionally stunted as Sam and Bobby regarded him, knew that Dean was the kind of person that wears the words people criticize him as like a shield, a mask. He knew he was capable of this kind of connection, knew that Dean understood better than a lot of people what it’s like to drown in words unsaid.

He just hadn’t expected Dean to ever have the courage in himself to actually say the words he needed to.

Castiel, for a moment, was overwhelmed in how proud he was of this man.

“I would do anything to protect you,” Castiel told him honestly. “Even this.”

“I know,” Dean said. “I just want you to stop acting like I would ever ask you to.”

“I know you wouldn’t. That’s why I do. Because I want you to be okay. More than anything.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered, looking away. “Ever think maybe that’s what I want, too?”

Castiel looked away, too.

“But I understand,” Dean added.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel replied softly, “but, if I could go back, I don’t think I would change it all, if it meant keeping you safe.”

“Okay,” Dean said, taking a deep breath. “We’ll just—stop looking back, I guess, and keep moving forward.”

Castiel wasn’t sure how much better that would be, but he nodded anyway.

“So,” Dean began. “Angel mojo?”

“It’s unpleasant,” Castiel confessed, looking down at his hands. “I’m aware of too much at one time. It fits funny under my skin. But I can fly and turn invisible and heal, so that’s a good plus.”

“Bobby told us what you did.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, and kissed him.

It wasn’t much of a kiss. It was barely a brush of lips at all. But it was enough to tell Castiel what he needed to know about where they stood, and it was enough that Dean pulled away and Castiel ducked his head almost bashfully to hide his smile. Dean leaned over and nudged his shoulder with his own, his smile breaking through the cracks.

“Don’t be a stranger this time, okay?” Dean asked, and Castiel wasn’t sure when they were in a similar situation before to warrant this to be a “this time”, but he nodded all the same. Dean nodded back, taking half a step away at the same time that the door opened and Sam sauntered through, looking like a guilty puppy with only a vague hope for forgiveness, and, seeing that look, Castiel couldn’t help but to be reminded that Sam had been the one to let Lucifer out of the cage.

Castiel looked away on reflex. It didn’t seem like either of the Winchester brothers noticed.

“You ready to go?” Dean asked him.

“Yeah,” Sam said, choked, and then cleared his throat and repeated, “Yeah. You coming, Cas?”

“It would be safer if I didn’t,” Castiel admitted slowly, glancing to Dean to see if he was mad, but he seemed to have known that answer was coming, because he nodded, pulling his keys from his pocket.

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “Well, call us if you need us, alright?”

“I will,” Castiel said, but it didn’t feel like much of a promise.

Sam nodded, assured enough, and nervously looked to Dean. Dean looked one more time at Castiel before offering him a smile, gesturing for his brother to follow him as he turned and made his way up the hallway. Sam sacrificed one more glance and smile to Castiel before he followed behind, the brothers not the same but reunited again, and there was something that felt whole about being able to watch the two walk in sync with each other, feeling their energy when they were in the same room.

Castiel looked at the brothers and could understand how they were the two that would either save the world, or destroy it.

The moment the Winchesters disappeared up the hall, Castiel took flight.


	3. Good God, Y'all

Castiel had his bright idea on a Thursday, but it took him almost a full twenty-four hours just to get in contact with the Winchesters to find out where they were. It was exhausting, not having the Winchesters as a point on his map that he could check on, but he knew it was better this way as he popped up in a parking lot outside of a motel in Nebraska, searching the room numbers until he found number five. He strode over to the door and knocked, waiting patiently.

Dean opened the door about thirty seconds later, looking rumpled and tired. Sam was sitting at the tiny table by the window, not looking much better. He stepped back to let Castiel into the room and Castiel nodded to him in thanks, pacing to the middle of the room.

“I don’t have much time,” he informed them, always feeling that way now, his mind on fast-forward, suddenly knowing everything, never able to rest or sleep. Dean just crossed his arms, staring him down, and Sam was doing about the same. “We need to talk,” Castiel added unnecessarily, causing Dean to roll his eyes fondly.

“Okay, talk,” he said.

“I have a plan. Trying to kill Lucifer, and Michael—it will be difficult, borderline impossible. So I’ve been thinking for the last few days, meditating in an attempt to think of something with all of this new timeless angel information, and I got something that has at least a little bit of possibility.”

“Wait, you know _everything_?” Sam demanded.

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “It’s overwhelming, more often than not.”

Sam stilled seemed flabbergasted and looked like he wanted to ask, but one side glance from Dean was enough to tell him that it was totally not the right time. Sam nodded for Castiel to continue, sitting on the edge of his chair.

“There is someone besides Michael strong enough to take on Lucifer,” Castiel informed them, feeling almost frenzied now as he clawed his way closer to his entire point. “Strong enough to stop the apocalypse, even.”

“Who’s that?” Sam asked.

“The one who began everything,” Castiel said. “God.”

Sam and Dean both just stared at him.

“I’m going to find God,” Castiel told them, as if waiting for them to finally grasp the punch line of an awful joke.

They stared. And then Dean started to laugh, like it _was_ a punch line.

“God?” he asked skeptically.

Castiel nodded, face falling.

“God.” Dean was starting to realize he was serious.

“Yes,” Castiel responded impatiently, more then a little irritated at Dean’s lack of belief with his plan. “He isn’t in Heaven, Dean, so he has to be somewhere.”

“Try New Mexico, I hear he’s on a tortilla,” Dean mocked.

Castiel’s eye twitched as he growled, “He’s not on any flatbread.”

“Listen, Cas,” Sam called, trying to put himself in the middle of their spat before it got ugly. “Even if there is a God, we don’t know if he’s going to help.”

“The generous theory is that he’s dead,” Dean dismissed Sam immediately.

“He’s out there, Dean, he has to be,” Castiel insisted wildly, his hands starting to shake.

“Or,” Dean continued, “he’s up and kicking and doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any of us.”

Castiel didn’t move. Sam looked at him nervously but didn’t say anything to interrupt his brother as he continued.

“I mean, look around us, man,” Dean told him, throwing his arms up as if to emphasize the subpar motel walls around them directly. “The world is in the toilet. We are literally at the end of days here, Cas, and God’s off somewhere drinking booze out of a coconut, alright?”

“Enough!” Castiel yelled, his voice so loud the windows rattled in their frames. Sam froze, tensing. Dean, stunned, took a step back, eyes going wide as he realized just how mad Castiel was, finally realizing that his hands were curled into fists, finally seeming to realize Castiel was shaking in attempt to keep himself from exploding.

Castiel let in a ragged breath, hoping to calm himself down, before remembering he can’t breathe.

“This is not a theological issue—it’s strategic,” Castiel managed to growl out. “With God’s help, we can win.”

“It’s a pipe dream, Cas,” Dean still told him, but it was much softer. Almost sad.

“What else do I have to believe in?” Castiel demanded desperately, his voice wavering, and Dean flinched, wounded. Castiel spread his arms, wishing Dean would understand. “Honestly, Dean, what do I have left? I’m hunted. I rebelled. And I did it, all of it, for you.” Castiel looked him in the eye. “And you failed. You and Sam let Lucifer out and I lost _everything_ for _nothing_. So keep your opinions to yourself.”

Neither of the brothers could meet his eyes, but Castiel couldn’t look away. He hoped they felt the heat of his gaze.

“If we win,” Castiel continued, “things for you two can go right back to normal. But this?” Castiel stabbed a finger at his chest. “There’s no _cure_ for this. I’m like this forever until someone shoves an angel blade through my heart. When you can walk away after saving the world, I will never be able to. So stop acting like you’re the only casualty in this war.”

Sam was staring at the ground, tears he wouldn’t shed welling in his eyes, but Castiel could see them and feel his anguish all the same. Dean was staring at him, expression broken. Castiel met his eyes, wishing he could save them all from this.

“So let me have this one hope, okay?” Castiel murmured, voice breaking, and Dean looked away, throat working as he swallowed heavily.

“What do you need?” Dean grated out, not looking at him.

“An amulet,” Castiel began slowly, trying to shake it off and compartmentalize. “It’s very rare, very powerful. It burns hot in God’s presence, and it’ll help me find him. It’s—like a God EMF.”

Sam looked taken aback. “We’ve got nothing like that.”

“You don’t,” Castiel conceded, and then looked at Dean.

Dean stared back, clueless. “What? Me?”

Castiel looked down to stare at the amulet Dean always wore, the one that Sam had given him when they were kids. Dean looked down, too, noticing Castiel’s gaze, and looked at the amulet. His head shot up, eyes wide, and he stared at him incredulously. Castiel couldn’t help but to feel pitying.

Dean loved that necklace because Sam had given it to him. But, from the moment Castiel saw it again since acquiring his grace, he had known it for what it was, and Castiel had to ask.

“No,” Dean said immediately.

“Dean, please,” Castiel pleaded, tired. “I promise I’m not going to lose it. I _swear_. You know me.”

But still, Dean hesitated. He reached up, tugging on the string for a minute, obviously thinking about it and having a bit of an internal debate. Castiel just waited, not entirely sure what Dean would say but willing to accept either answer, and Sam looked on with an expression of someone who was just understanding that he once gave his brother one of the most powerful amulets in the world for Christmas when he was barely old enough for long division.

“Fine,” Dean said gruffly, pulling the necklace over his head and holding it out for Castiel. Castiel reached for it, but Dean pulled it back before he could touch it, eyes burning with unhappy determination. “Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t, Dean,” Castiel promised him, and Dean opened his hand and let the amulet fall into Castiel’s palm. It was cold. Castiel closed his fingers over it before he brought it up over his own head, letting it rest under his shirt, secured. Dean looked at where the chain disappeared under his collar.

“Great,” Dean muttered. “Now I feel naked.”

Castiel paused a second to feel the weight of the amulet around his neck before he looked back at Dean and Sam, not knowing what to say anymore, not knowing where to go, but knowing he had a mission.

“If you need me, you should pray to me your location,” Castiel told them slowly. “It would be faster and more convenient than calling me. Just make sure to tell me where you are. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need help, okay?

Sam nodded obediently, but Dean hesitated, looking him in the eye first and trying to convey something silently, but it was like Castiel was suddenly disconnected from their silent conversations. Dean seemed to notice because his face dropped before he nodded back, swallowing hard.

Castiel left before he said something else he might regret.

~*~

He honestly met the angel on accident.

Castiel had heard distant murmurs of something strange on angel radio, but he hadn’t actually expected to find anything under the streets of Paris. Castiel wandered the sewers impassively, lost, the amulet a foreign weight around his neck, wondering every once in a while what Sam and Dean might be up to before squashing it, ignoring the feeling of his silent cell phone against his leg. Castiel lost hours to nothing, a suspicious feeling in his stomach, before he was ready to give up—and, naturally, that was the second he saw it out of the corner of his eye.

A sigil was carved into the concrete, blending into the grooves so closely that Castiel would have missed it if it hadn’t given off a pulse of some kind of energy, some kind of warning. Castiel took two large steps toward it, tracing it with his fingertips and frowning, his added instincts warning him away. Castiel had barely begun to reach for his angel blade when an accented voice said from behind him, “That sword won’t be necessary, buttercup.”

Castiel whirled around and found a man standing several paces away, leaning against the opposite wall. He was tall and blond, several years older than Castiel and wearing a v-neck like none Castiel had ever seen. He was smirking like it was an inside joke. His wings, beneath the invisible veil, were striking silver.

“Ooh,” the angel commented in his British accent, eyebrows rising, “you’re him, aren’t you? The new angel to the roster. Welcome to the garrison.”

“I am not a part of your garrison,” Castiel told him calmly, eye twitching.

The angel rolled his eyes. “Obviously, twinkle toes. I’m not, either. I took flight once Zachariah started getting a little too fanatical for my tastes, but they think I perished bravely on the battlefield. Morons. Which begs the question—what’re you doing in my neck of the woods?”

The angel was constant movement, constant talking, like he was restless inside of his vessel, maybe sick of not having someone to talk to about things like this. Castiel blinked slowly, weighing his options, and figured he might as well at least talk to the other supernatural.

“I heard talk,” Castiel admitted slowly. “And then I felt the pull.”

“Then you’re a lot more powerful than you look, Righteous Man,” the angel said, pursing his lips as he looked Castiel up and down. “What’s that name of yours again?”

“What’s yours?”

“Balthazar,” the angel told him, rising his eyebrows in expectation. Castiel, not being able to help but trust the other reject, couldn’t help but to be honest.

“Castiel.”

Balthazar’s eyebrows seemed to go up even higher, his expression fumbling.

“What?”

“It’s strange,” Balthazar admitted, squinting at Castiel. “There was an angel once with your name. He was a close brother to me, but he died a long time ago at the hands of another angel. It’s strange how you of all people would have his name.”

Castiel didn’t quite know how to reply to that.

“I’ve heard some distant talk of you, but I try to stay as far out of angel affairs as possible,” Balthazar informed him, still looking him up and down curiously. Castiel was starting to feel a little objectified. “Hard to ignore it, though, when an angel yells over the broadcast that you’ve been saved from hell. Anna, was it?”

Castiel nodded. “She betrayed me.”

“Ah,” Balthazar replied, grimacing pityingly. “Figured it would be something like that. What with the sudden wings and all.”

The two of them stood there looking at each other for a moment, neither seeming to know what to expect. Balthazar had the first question, though, and he certainly didn’t seem like the kind of person to be shy with sharing whatever was on his mind.

“Are you looking for something hard to find, Castiel?” he asked like he knew already, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. “I can’t think of any other reason you would be here because of some whispers.”

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” Castiel told the other angel honestly.

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck about what’s happening in heaven right now, if it’s any consolation,” Balthazar informed him, but Castiel had been lied to with words before. “Honestly, in this situation, you should be the one gone untrusted, sweetheart. You’re the one with a piece of Lucifer’s grace, and you’re the one with an apparent angel vendetta who stumbled on an angel trying to hide.”

Castiel couldn’t help but to see some logic in that. And Balthazar didn’t look like he was going to attack and kill him or anything of the sort—as far as Castiel could tell, Balthazar was only armed with his angel blade, and it stayed safely tucked away in the same dimension as his wings, and Balthazar hadn’t even made a move to grab for it when he had discovered Castiel there. Balthazar looked haggard, tired, but trying to hide it with a grin. He looked the kind of trustable that only a crazy person could trust.

It was a good thing that Castiel was out of his mind, because the next words out of his mouth were, “I’m going to attempt to find God.”

Balthazar blinked, and stared. Blinked, and stared. And then he let out a choked laugh.

“God?” he demanded, sounding like Dean had when Castiel had told him. Castiel frowned, and Balthazar started shaking his head incredulously. “Jesus, you’re serious. You’re actually serious. You’ve had your wings less than a week and you’re already on the hunt for daddy dearest. Well, silly Castiel, I have some news for you—God’s gone. None of us have seen him in many, many moons. I’d say since the beginning of time.”

“He has to be somewhere,” Castiel continued, entirely convinced, and Balthazar looked away from him for the first time. “If I had any guess, I would say he’s laying low somewhere on earth. I’ll look further if I have to. But this apocalypse has to be stopped.”

“And you think God is the only one capable of stopping it.”

“Without a fight? Without war and death and carnage?” Castiel held Balthazar’s eyes. “Yes. That is what I believe.”

“You don’t want there to be a fight,” Balthazar drawled his obvious observation, watching him squarely. “What have you got to lose?”

Castiel looked away, not sure why he suddenly felt embarrassed.

“Oh,” Balthazar said with a laugh, sounding amused. “Is it a beautiful girl? Or a gorgeous boy?”

Castiel didn’t answer.

“Cassie, you’re killing me here,” Balthazar teased, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “I’m very interested.”

“I have a boyfriend,” Castiel deadpanned, only a little awkwardly. “He’s a hunter. With guns.”

Balthazar sighed like it was a true devastation before shrugging away from the wall, holding his arms out to the side. “Okay, how about this—I could help you out on your crazy mission to save the world. I’m good at not being found by the angels, and I’m not keen on getting murdered, as would probably happen if Michael and Lucifer have their final showdown, so what the hell. I’ll buy into your crazy conspiracy theories. Just tell me what to do and I’ll make sure your best friend Anna doesn’t find you unless you want her to.”

“That’s why you want to help me?” Castiel demanded, almost surprised. “Not to save humanity, but to save yourself?”

Balthazar shrugged. “I’m selfish. Sue me.”

Castiel stared at him, figuring he was willing to accept it as long as it would buy him somewhat of an ally, but he could tell that wasn’t the whole story. He watched Balthazar, waiting to see if he would admit it or if they were both going to pretend like the angel hadn’t been able to continue his story earlier. Balthazar met his gaze squarely, admittedly not seeming to like the fact that Castiel was even a little bit perceptive, before he looked away, frowning.

“I owed the other Castiel many more favors than this,” Balthazar admitted plainly. “I suppose it feels like the first step at paying him back for the millions of times he saved my ass in battle. He was a good friend, a good brother. Might as well do something good for his namesake.”

Castiel could have kept asking, but he didn’t want to. “Where should I begin?” Castiel asked, still truly lost for what to do, still helpless. Balthazar considered the question before laughing humorlessly, shaking his head.

“Damn, Cassie, anywhere,” Balthazar told him, and then shrugged. “Go up to a globe, give it a good spin, and point. There’s no evidence, no hints. Most don’t even think he’s alive anymore. I don’t even think he speaks to the archangels.”

Castiel scowled, but he was frenzied, and he couldn’t so easily be talked out of the only plan he had. He nodded, acknowledging Balthazar’s advice, and looked back up the tunnel. Balthazar seemed to see that his advice was falling on deaf ears because he sighed dramatically.

“Something strange has been poking around Rome, you’ll feel it when you’re close,” Balthazar told him, gesturing with his hands in a shooing motion. “Pray if you need me. If you heard about me on angel radio, I won’t be here when you’re ready to meet up again. Just let me know anything I might need to know, capisce?”

“I understand,” Castiel told him solemnly, seriously. Balthazar looked like he couldn’t help but to laugh at him.

“Lighten up, Cassie,” Balthazar teased, grinning. “It’s the end of the world.”

Before Castiel could reply, Balthazar was gone, and Castiel was left with more questions than he had answers.

~*~

“You cut off his fingers?” Castiel asked, a little disturbed.

“Hey, it was that or watch a town full of people kill each other,” Sam argued, sounding much more exhausted than normal. The background behind him was loud, like a truck stop. “Looked like the ring was where the horseman got all his power, anyway. I left it with Dean. They’ll—”

“Wait,” Castiel pulled up short, pressing the phone tighter to his ear. “You’re not with Dean?”

“No,” Sam told him slowly, sighing deeply. “I—we split. I don’t think I should be hunting right now, and Dean doesn’t trust me anymore. I let Lucifer out of the box, Cas. That’s the worst possible thing a hunter could do. I let everyone down. I started the end of the world. I don’t trust me, either.”

“I trust you,” Castiel told him, for what it was worth.

Sam let out a shaky breath. Castiel figured it might be worth more than he thought, but Sam didn’t mention it. “I caught a ride with a rig and now I’m about to catch another one. But I know how Dean is, and I figured he wouldn’t call you with a progress report. I figured you deserved to know about the horsemen. And, uh, how Ellen and Jo were there and all. I figured you’d want to know.”

“I do appreciate that,” Castiel told him honestly, eyes narrowing. “But I feel like you’re not telling me something.”

“We told them. Dean and I. We told Ellen and Jo what happened to you.”

Silence.

“They were . . . surprised. But they’re not mad or freaked or anything. Maybe you should give them a call.”

“Sam,” he sighed.

“Yeah, I know, easier said than done. Still. Doesn’t hurt to think about it.”

Thinking hurt the worst. Castiel could tell Sam didn’t believe his own line even as he said it.

“I’ll consider it,” Castiel admitted slowly, leaning back against the window and gazing out toward the gray apartment buildings on the other side, this part of Russia not looking as Castiel had pictured it would in his head. “Are you sure you will be safe on your own?”

“I’ll be fine, Cas,” Sam told him, but he sounded like, if he said it enough times, he might be able to convince himself, too. “I’ll just keep my head down and play civilian. I can do that.”

Castiel didn’t comment. Sam didn’t comment on Castiel not commenting.

“Anything new with you?” Sam asked simply.

“I have been looking into recent phenomena that could prove to be something godlike, or other things unexplainable,” he said. “I’ve also been keeping track of anything that the angel radio says is going strangely or unexpectedly, but they don’t talk much of anything useful. Mostly, they talk about what’s to come and, frankly, I don’t need to keep hearing about that every hour of the day.”

“Amen to that.”

“Cassie,” Balthazar called from behind him, over into the living room, and then looked up to see he was on the phone, so he smiled guiltily and added, “Whoops, carry on.”

“Who was that?” Sam suddenly demanded, guarded.

“I’ve met another angel who seems trustworthy and willing to help me,” Castiel explained, not understanding Sam’s sudden tone. “He has been flying under heaven’s radar for many years now, and he does not agree with their stance on the apocalypse. He is a good ally.”

“Right.” Sam did not sound convince. “Just you and him?”

“I’m not cheating on your brother,” Castiel deadpanned.

“I didn’t think that,” Sam said, and then continued, “Okay, that was a lie, I kinda did think that. I’m not really sure where you and Dean stand, since your relationship is a fucking dysfunctional nightmare, but I just—I don’t know. Dean’s got enough problems. I guess I don’t want him to be completely alone.”

“He has Bobby.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, sounding like he didn’t want to talk about his brother anymore. “Anyway, Cas, I have to go. I’ll call you if I need help, alright?”

“Of course. Anytime, Sam.”

“Alright, well, good luck.

“To you as well, Sam,” Castiel wished before they both hung up, slipping his phone back into his pocket after a firm moment of considering calling Dean, and deciding against it. Less than a moment later, Balthazar was already looking at him.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asked.

“What else is new?” Castiel demanded rhetorically, turning his gaze to the sky, but there were no stars this close to the city. Castiel looked up into the dull inky black, and he caught himself wondering if Dean thought about Castiel as much as Castiel thought about him.

Castiel closed his eyes and took a deep breath before tearing himself away from the window, and getting back to work.


	4. Free to Be You and Me

“Been a while since I heard from you, kid,” was the first thing that Bobby greeted him with when Castiel called about a week after Sam’s last update, a week that went by faster than a week should have. Castiel was lounging on the couch in the Russian flat, his shoes off and feet up on the table, and he’d finally had the chance to look at his phone. He’d called the moment his angel grace had healed the burn wounds from his hands, new information pounding in his chest like a new heartbeat. Castiel couldn’t help but to smile when he heard the older man’s voice, not having even realized he missed him.

“I’m sorry about that,” Castiel replied honestly, feeling more than a little guilty. “How are your legs?”

“Good as new,” Bobby replied gruffly. He paused. “Never did formally thank you for that, did I?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel told him hurriedly, almost nervously. For some reason, hearing a thank you from Bobby Singer just didn’t feel like it would sit right. Castiel owed Bobby so much that Bobby shouldn’t ever have to thank him for anything. It was just Castiel working endlessly to pay all of the debts that he owed his man who was probably the closest thing to a father figure Castiel had ever had. And maybe he didn’t owe him, but he felt like he did. It was hard not to.

Bobby made a sound like he, too, was almost glad to avoid that speech. “So what’re you up to, kid? Dean and Sam last told me that they hadn’t seen you since all that search-for-god stuff. Everythin’ alright?”

“It’s fine,” Castiel assured him, leaning his head back into the sofa. “We just got back from looking into a lead. Long story.”

“We?” Bobby asked instead, and Castiel imagined that the man’s eyebrows would be way, way up. “I know for a fact you ain’t with the Winchesters.”

“No,” Castiel agreed, but didn’t so into detail. “But they are what I called you about.”

“I take it you heard about the Sam and Dean split?”

“Sam called me not long after to tell me. He rightly figured that Dean wouldn’t tell me a word.”

“Idjits,” Bobby scoffed with a sigh. “The two of them can’t go a day without bein’ at each other’s throats.”

“This is a big thing, though, Bobby. This is a question of trust that Sam betrayed. Dean doesn’t know what else Sam could go against, and Sam doesn’t trust himself to be able to deal with this big of a mess, as well as his brother, at the moment. It’s frustrating, but understandable. They will end up reuniting sooner rather than later, I’m sure.”

It was a broken promise, a broken reassurance, but neither of them were ready to own up to admitting it. Castiel and Bobby both had their own problems, and only part of them were juggling the dynamic of the Winchester brothers, even if the two men tied them all together. They would be alright, Castiel was sure, simply because they had to be. Even if Sam sat this entire one out, which he knew he never would, they would be able to do what they could.

Castiel moved his eyes up to stare at the ceiling. He could hear Balthazar in the kitchen, and liquor bottles were banging against each other. Castiel thought of Ellen and Jo, and quickly shoved that out of his mind.

“I called to ask if you knew where Dean is,” Castiel admitted.

“I figured it’d be somethin’ like that. You couldn’t call him?”

“I don’t think he’d answer.”

“You really think he’s that mad at you?”

Castiel didn’t even bother answering.

“Look, I’m not tryin’ to become mediator of whatever the hell is going on between you two lately,” Bobby told him honestly, and Castiel had no doubt that there would be a but. “But—it’s a two way street, Cas. Wouldn’t kill ya to check in and let him know you aren’t dead in a gutter somewhere.”

A shot of guilt twisted in his stomach. “Bobby.”

“Alright, alright, I said my piece,” Bobby told him, a shuffling sound coming from his side of the conversation. “I’ll call and ask him, then send you the information in a text message. Mind me askin’ where exactly you are? For curiosity’s sake.”

“Somewhere around St. Petersburg. It’s a small town.”

Bobby went quiet. “I’m guessin’ you’re not talkin’ ’bout Florida.”

“No.”

“It’s takin’ a bit to get used to,” Bobby admitted, still not sounding all that comfortable with it—Castiel couldn’t blame him—before returning to his shuffling. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve been better.”

“My door’s always open for you, Cas. You know that, right?”

Castiel couldn’t help but to smile. Bobby Singer came off as gruff and tough and mean, but he was one of the overall kindest people once Castiel got to know him better. Bobby had adopted him into his wayward family. He hadn’t even pushed him away with the new revelation of Castiel having wings and superpowers. While Castiel already knew he could rely on Bobby, it was at least nice to hear the reassurance.

“I know that, Bobby. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bobby grunted, and it sounded like he meant it entirely literally. Castiel grinned.

“Just let me know when you have the address. I hate to push, but it’s time-sensitive.”

“I’ll call in a minute, you impatient idjit,” Bobby snapped, all sharing and caring time over for now. Castiel laughed.

“Alright. Later, Bobby.”

Bobby muttered something unintelligible before hanging up. Instantly, Balthazar appeared in the chair adjacent to Castiel, holding a wine glass filled red. He raised an eyebrow.

“You’re really sure that your beau’s gonna be able to help with this?” Balthazar asked, just as skeptical as he had been when Castiel told him the plan about a half hour ago.

“Dean’s perfectly capable of helping. And you know better than I do that we need his help. He’s important to all of this, same as me and Sam. He’s one of the only people on this planet that I trust.”

Balthazar made a noncommittal sound and sipped at his wine.

“Don’t pout because you’re not invited, that’s childish.”

“I’m not pouting,” the British-accented angel snapped.

Castiel tilted his head.

“Shut up,” Balthazar told him, reaching up to moodily sip at his wine again, but he couldn’t hide his smirk.

Even so, Castiel just rolled his eyes in response and curled a little tighter against the couch, clutching his phone in his hand and waiting for Bobby to tell him where to find his untraceable probably-boyfriend, and turning the information they had just learned around and around in his head.

If anyone could make crazy shit happen, Castiel decided, a small smile tugging at his lips, then it was definitely a Winchester.

Castiel’s phone vibrated with a message. He opened it to an address, and a room number.

“Show time,” Balthazar said.

~*~

When Castiel landed in Dean’s motel room, he somehow managed to land directly behind him, standing at a sink with a washcloth in his hand, rubbing a jacket clean. Castiel paused, about to open his mouth and say something to announce his presence, never willing to admit the tightening feeling in his chest at the sight of the man he had missed so much in the passing days, but he hesitated a second too long. Dean, with hunter senses, must have noticed something was off, because he looked up and into the mirror, and he saw Castiel—or, rather, _someone_ —looming behind him.

He jumped, startled, eyes wide and expression alarmed. It took him a moment before he realized it was Castiel, and his expression easily twisted into a scowl.

“God,” Dean breathed, still sounding freaked, and he thumped the fist clutching the washcloth onto the counter next to the sink. He looked up into the mirror, glaringly intense green eyes locking in on him. “Don’t to that,” he added in a snap.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said for lack of anything else to say, trying _so_ hard not to laugh. Dean took a deep breath to settle himself before slamming the washcloth down on the counter and spinning around, gripping the jacket. Dean must have assumed that Castiel had moved but he hadn’t, and suddenly they were face-to-face, close enough that their noses almost touched, that their noses _would_ have touched if Castiel had the courage or the permission to dart forward and kiss him.

Dean stared at Castiel. Castiel stared back.

Castiel considered just kissing him anyway.

And then Dean said, “Cas—personal space.”

It was less of a punch to the stomach and more like Castiel had been bashed straight off the edge of the earth and was hurtling through space and time. Castiel disguised his flinch by stepping backwards in the same movement, not commenting. Dean didn’t notice, and instead just stalked past him to his bag. Castiel swallowed the rejection and figured he might as well revert back to the old tactics, the ones he hadn’t practiced since long before hell. He laughed.

“What, is that a rule now?” Castiel teased Dean, almost cruelly. Dean didn’t even look up from where he was trying to shove the garment into the bag, acting as if Castiel hadn’t even spoken.

“How’d you find me?” Dean demanded, his tone withheld but not angry. That was probably as good of a sign as any. “I thought I was flying under angel radar or whatever.”

“You are,” Castiel replied, playing nice. “Bobby told me.”

“I should’ve known,” Dean growled, and then rounded on him. He looked reserved with an undertone of angry. Castiel couldn’t tell if he was what Dean was angry at, but it still made him wince. “What do you want?”

Castiel pointedly didn’t look at the empty, unused bed to his left, figuring that he would rather ease into it. He moved instead toward the table, where Dean had information of the case he appeared to just have finished, hovering over it and pretending to be more interested in reading about it than anything. He could feel Dean’s eyes biting into him.

“Sam called,” Castiel finally stated innocently.

“Of course he did,” Dean replied anything but kindly, and Castiel looked up to see the anger grow. So it was about Sam. It wasn’t unexpected, but it still changed things. Castiel straightened up, turning his attention back to Dean permanently, and he watched the man’s hands clench twice before he continued speaking. “So much for staying under the radar. What did he say?”

“He called a week or so ago,” Castiel explained. “Not long from when you split. I figured I would give you some space.”

“I told you not to be a stranger,” Dean replied sharply.

Castiel remembered a hospital hallway and that brief feeling of hope that Dean had actually forgiven him. Castiel looked away, feeling it like whiplash. Dean just kept looking at him.

“I need your help,” Castiel admitted softly.

“Is that the only time you’re ever going to talk to me now?” Dean demanded, all of his internalized anger lashing out at the closest thing, and Castiel was willing to take the hits. He stood straighter as Dean’s anger unfurled around him, like smoke to flames. “Are we only ever going to talk if you need a human to help you do your bidding? How’s the God hunt going, Cas? Finding anything good?”

“That’s not what’s happening here, and you know it,” Castiel replied softly, knowing he could take the verbal hits, but they still stung. “I know this will never be the same. I’m not about to pretend it’s any different. But I don’t want it to be.”

Dean was silent. Castiel was terrified of fanning the flames, so he didn’t say anything, either.

“Are you just gonna keep running away?” Dean asked him, more vulnerable than Castiel anticipated he would let himself be, and it felt like a kick to the ribcage. Castiel forced himself to look at him, biting his tongue hard.

“I don’t want to run from you,” Castiel said, figuring it would be easier just to tell the truth. Something flashed behind Dean’s eyes and he looked away, clenching his jaw as he stared heatedly at the wall. Castiel looked away, too, because looking at Dean was like staring into the sun.

He wanted nothing more than to close the space in between them and wind his arms around the man. Castiel wanted so badly for it to go back to the way it had been. The times spent making out in the Impala like teenagers or sneaking kisses in barrooms were already starting to feel like distant memories. It had only been months ago that Castiel had come back from hell and Dean had handed him back his trench coat with a heartfelt speech. It felt like it could have been a decade with how much everything had changed.

Maybe Dean was thinking the same way. Castiel never would have been able to tell by the stony expression he wore.

“Fine,” Dean murmured, turning back to him like looking at Castiel pained him, too. “I’ll help you with whatever the hell you’re asking for. Is this some kind of God thing or what?”

They weren’t done talking, not for a long shot. But it was progress, as little of progress as that was. Castiel nodded slowly, willing to pretend like they could just pick the conversation up later without consequences, but knowing that it would only fester under their skin like a bruise, and it would only be able to explode from there. Castiel was just too sick of arguing to keep fighting it.

“Somewhat,” Castiel admitted, looking Dean in the eye. “God is not what we’re going to be looking for, technically. It’s someone else. You know the archangel that protects Chuck, the one that tried to smite me?”

Dean flinched, but still nodded.

“His name is Raphael.”

“Raphael,” Dean replied with grating sarcasm. “The teenage mutant ninja angel?”

“I need your help with trying to capture him.”

Dean blinked once before he laughed, and then he stopped. He blinked again.

“You’re serious,” he said, eyebrows shooting up, incredulous expression taking place in his face. “You want to try to get your hands on an honest-to-god archangel with the power to smite us straight out of existence?”

“It might not be the smartest plan, but it can work,” Castiel assured him.

“It sounds like suicide.”

“If anyone is going to know where God is, or at least what is happening up in Heaven, it’s going to be an archangel. I have reason to believe that Raphael is walking the earth, and this is a very rare opportunity. We can grab him and interrogate him, and he can tell us what we need to know.”

“And once he gets out of his chains?”

“When have we ever thought that far ahead before?” Castiel demanded, grinning at Dean, but Dean didn’t grin back. Castiel’s face fell. “It’s all we have, Dean. Raphael is the only one that can help us now.”

“So, what, I’m Thelma and you’re Louise and we’re just going to hold hands and sail off this cliff together?”

Castiel flinched, because he knew that was basically what he was asking, and he knew it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t all that kind, asking Dean to throw himself with him in front of the wrath of an archangel, but Castiel knew he had followed him into worse. Dean probably knew that, too, but this was how it looked like they were going to spend the rest of the day—throwing offhanded insults to each other, hoping to hurt each other. Castiel had a feeling Dean was going to win, and he was going to be walking away with more open wounds on his heart than he would have wanted.

“You’re the only one I trust to help me with this,” Castiel told him because it wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t the entire truth, either.

“Right,” Dean said, but he sounded anything but convinced. “Give me one good reason why I should do this.”

And this was where Castiel started feeling guilty. He looked away, shuffling on his feet to bring his trench coat a little tighter around himself, a security blanket. Dean waited, but Castiel didn’t quite know how to put it into words. Dean, thankfully, was always good at filling in the blanks himself.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Dean growled.

“You’re Michael’s vessel, and no angel would dare harm you,” Castiel tried to explain, but he knew that this was not going to go over well. He was proven correct when Dean snorted, loud enough to cut Castiel off mid-explanation.

“I’m your fucking bullet shield, is that what you’re trying to tell me?” Dean demanded, ruthless, really angry now. This time, angry at _Castiel_. Castiel grimaced, looking away. He hated himself so much for being here, for thinking about using Dean like this, with this ulterior motive.

Castiel would have picked Dean to help him any day over Balthazar, even over Sam or Bobby. But he would never be able to explain away the small bonus that he would get with choosing Dean, and Dean was more than aware that the asterisk existed next to his name.

It definitely did nothing more than piss the hunter off.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Dean told him, raging. “You’re fucking using me to—to keep the archangel from murdering us on sight. Jesus, Cas, who the fuck even are you?”

“You know who I am,” Castiel growled, hands curling in his own righteous anger. “You seemed more than happy to use what came with the Righteous Man label only a few weeks ago, and now you’re criticizing me for seeing similar advantages in you that you saw in me?”

Dean recoiled, obviously taken aback by the heat in which Castiel threw those accusations, but nothing he said was true. They didn’t make him mad, because Castiel knew how the game was played. Every small thing needed to be taken advantage of. It was war.

Castiel knew Dean didn’t hate him, not for this. This was everything boiling up in the manifestation of one thing. It was the straw that was slowly breaking Dean’s back, leaving him in agony. Castiel wished he had the power to heal that, too, but it wasn’t angel powers that would be able to accomplish it. He knew that well.

Dean didn’t say anything, looking like he was deflating. Castiel took a deep breath, figuring he might as well go with his gut, and he took the time to close the gap, three whole steps. Dean’s eyes widened marginally but he didn’t make a move to step back, not even when Castiel reached out and took Dean’s hand in his own, squeezing tightly. Dean was always warm, like a space heater. Castiel’s fingers tightened. Hesitantly, like thoughtful instinct, Dean’s did as well.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered, close enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice at all to be heard, his gaze nothing more than the green of Dean’s eyes and the knowledge that his lips were so, so close. “Dean, please, just listen to me. I don’t want to argue with you anymore. Please, _please_ don’t make me. I just want your help. You’re allowed to say no, but I need your help because you’re the only one who _can_ help me.”

Dean’s eyes flickered away at the same moment he murmured, “Okay. Okay, fine.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel paused. “And—nothing has changed since what I said to you in the car. Not in any way.”

Dean and Sam had called the Impala home long before Castiel had called it safety. That car was all the Winchesters had ever known, the only constant they had left other than each other. So many words had been said in that car, and so many memories had been made. It was the center of all of their worlds, now. And it was the last place that Castiel had told Dean that he loved him.

Dean didn’t need to hear him say it. Or maybe he did, and Castiel didn’t know him nearly as well as he thought he did. It didn’t change anything, because Castiel said nothing, and Dean said nothing, and they were standing there in a silence that felt like choking on poison, and neither of them seemed to know where in the hell they should go from there.

“I’ll drive,” Dean murmured after what felt like centuries of silence, twisting his fingers so that they fell from Castiel’s grip before turning his back, moving to pack his bag—and Castiel just stood there watching him, feeling like he was on the outside looking in.


	5. Take Me to Church

They didn’t talk much on the drive from Pennsylvania to Maine. It didn’t take long before they hit the city limits before Dean turned on the radio nice and loud, drowning out all opportunities for conversation. Their communication was general, and the most direct thing that Dean said to him was to ask Castiel to pass the box of cassette tapes. Castiel spent most of the time sitting there patiently, staring out of the window, and focusing on the ebb and flow of the world around him rather than how much he wanted to reach over and strangle the infuriating man to his left.

Eventually, with Castiel’s flawless direction, they pulled up to the Waterville Police Department. Dean had parked the Impala for a few minutes outside of a gas station before they hit town and changed into his FBI garb, pulling the necessary identification cards from the trunk without asking exactly why Castiel had told him he needed to. He’d handed Castiel’s over without looking at him. Castiel had barely been able to contain his overdramatic sigh.

“So, what’re we doing here?” Dean demanded as they stared at the façade of the police station, turning to raise an eyebrow at him. Castiel was almost thankful for this question. It was one he could answer.

“A deputy sheriff laid eyes on an archangel.”

Dean blinked. “And he still has eyes?”

Castiel nodded vaguely. Dean looked mildly distressed all the same.

“Alright, what’s the plan?”

“We’ll,” Castiel began, and then hesitated because, in all of the scenarios he had considered during this questioning, he hadn’t exactly been able to come up with a good enough idea. He chewed on his lip before he shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly. I don’t really have all of the details of the case.”

Dean looked at him, flabbergasted. “Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t the one to collect the intelligence.”

That argument didn’t seem to help, and Castiel realized exactly why about a millisecond later when Dean’s head (metaphorically) hit the roof.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dean demanded, practically yelling, eyes wide but also suspicious, crinkled a little at the corners like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to narrow into slits. “Who the—if _you_ didn’t get this information, who did? How do you even know it’s kosher?”

“I trust who presented it to me,” Castiel told him, feeling tired, not wanting to have this conversation moments before they were about to walk inside for an interrogation. “Dean, please.”

“No way,” Dean automatically dismissed, entirely prepared to huff and puff and blow Castiel’s house of flimsy omissions down to the ground. Dean shifted so they were facing each other, consequentially moving him a little closer. Castiel pretended not to notice. “Who’re you working with? I know it ain’t Bobby, since he would’ve been the one to come callin’ and not you. Are you in league with a demon or something?”

“A demon,” Castiel snorted, finding it almost absurdly comical of an idea now that he was practically holy. Dean, however, didn’t find it nearly as humorous. In fact, his eye twitched as he stared him down, accentuating just how funny all of this was _not_. Castiel sighed, reaching up and running a hand through his hair. “It’s not a big deal, Dean. I needed an ally on a different spectrum, and he offered me his assistance.”

Dean looked like Castiel had just punched him in the face and then set the Impala on fire. Castiel almost wondered if something dreadful was happening out the window behind him, but Dean quickly smothered that idea when he let out a hoarse and thoroughly insulted, “ _He_?”

Castiel stared at Dean. And then stared some more.

“You’re jealous,” Castiel accused. He sounded more surprised than he supposed he should have.

Dean opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it again. His mouth pressed into a frown, deep and dangerous and unhappy, before he turned away to stare lasers out of the windshield. Castiel let him simmer for a moment, still staring an incredulous hole on the side of Dean’s head.

“Dean, I am not and will never be unfaithful to you,” Castiel told him, shifting from being surprised to being hurt. He looked away when Dean looked at him, not wanting to see his expression. “ _Jesus_ , Dean. I know you don’t trust this whole angel thing, but could you at least do me the decency to trust _me_?”

Dean didn’t respond for a moment, and the silence they sat in was worse than falling. And then Dean took a deep breath and shifted again, moving closer in a way that called Castiel’s attention. When he finally looked back over, Dean was looking sheepish, guilty, his hands spread out in front of him like he wished to God that there was something he could give Castiel other than his word. Castiel stared at him for a moment, unblinking.

And then Dean decided to just go for it, and used those empty hands to grab Castiel’s face, holding him softly and staring into his eyes, his thumbs moving automatically to rub softly on Castiel’s cheekbones. Castiel kept staring into Dean’s eyes, locking everything away, not knowing whether or not to trust his back and forth attitude. Dean noticed that and tightened his hold just a little bit, all of the walls behind his eyes breaking down like the bursting of a dam under too much pressure.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, voice vulnerable. “I know it’s not enough, but I am. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ve been acting like a dickhead because I’m scared and because I’m mad at Sam, and I’m even mad at you even though I know it’s stupid of me to be. It’s just—everything was going so right. It was _good_. And then the universe had to go and screw it all up, like it always does, and I got scared and I pushed you both away, and I’m _sorry_.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say immediately. Dean said it first.

“I love you,” Dean told him strongly, leaving no room for doubt or pride. Dean’s hands flexed on Castiel’s face. “I love you whether you’re human or angel or whatever the hell else. A baseball glove, a pigeon, who gives a shit. Even if I’m mad at you, or upset, it doesn’t change that, alright?”

Castiel felt like his heart was in his throat, but he somehow managed to nod anyway. Dean cracked a smile before darting forward and leaving a short, burning kiss before dropping his hands and moving away, reaching for the car door.

“Let’s get this over with,” Dean declared cheerfully, and slammed the driver’s side door before Castiel even revived his mental capacities to understand that they were getting out of the car.

~*~

They were easily pointed in the right direction upon entering the station, barely anyone looking twice at their badges and just nodding them to go, looking too busy fielding phone calls and filling out paperwork. Dean and Castiel gravitated deeper into the row of desks and office doors, standing a decent distance apart from each other like it would at all solve the problem of the sexual tension between them. Castiel spotted the name on the door for the man they were looking for and grabbed Dean’s jacket, tugging to get his attention, and nodding to it once he had it. Dean led the way, all confidence and swagger and smiles, introducing himself easily to the secretary and letting her page the senior officer to report to them.

Castiel glanced back into the police station, feeling the numbing chaos around him in a new way, as if in vibrations in the air. It seemed like the feeling of watching the water in a glass quake as a large dinosaur approached—the officers felt the footfalls, but didn’t know which direction to run. They had a million questions for a million different problems, and all of the question marks swarmed around the busy air like buzzing bees.

Castiel was too distracted in the different metaphysical dynamic of the police station that he hadn’t even noticed that the officer had approached and Dean had introduced the two of them, and he turned at the feeling of eyes on his skin to see the both of them looking at him expectantly, Dean’s eyebrows raised in a silent question.

Castiel fumbled into his jacket and pulled out his fake badge, knowing the second it fell open that it would be upside down. The officer looked a mixture of impatient and bemused as Dean righted it for him, smiling easily and telling the man, “He’s new.”

He hoped his solemn nod was serious enough, but, either way, the office didn’t seem to give a damn. He ushered the two of them into his office anyway, motioning for them to take the two seats in front of his desk. They did, Dean stretching out in his minimal space and Castiel closing in on himself, remaining silent. The officer looked between them like he didn’t know what the hell to make of them.

“Mind if we ask a few questions?” Dean asked even though they were already seated in the office, obviously rather invited. The officer nodded before gesturing to his left ear.

“Talk here,” he instructed. “Hearing’s all blown to hell in the right.”

“That happened recently?”

“Yeah. Gas station.” The office gave them a look. “It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Dean answered with an affirmative, falling into a familiar pattern after however many hundred times they’ve gone through this same routine, questioning witnesses the same way since it all began and changing the script to accommodate them when they need to. Castiel watched on the sidelines, usually willing to let Dean and his charismatic demeanor take over most of the talking anyway. The office didn’t pay Castiel any mind, obviously believing Dean to be telling the truth when he said that Castiel was a newbie.

The officer, named Framingham, broke into a description of what he arrived to see the other night, beginning to gesture now that words weren’t enough. He explained pulling up to the station and finding about thirty to forty people engaged in combat like it was the middle of a warzone, and Castiel’s stomach flipped at the thought of the war that was raging still, only slightly shifting into a different meaning.

Dean glanced over at Castiel like he was thinking the same thing. Castiel looked back to Framingham.

“What happened next?” Castiel asked.

“Freaking explosion, that’s what. They said it was one of those underground gas tanks but I, uh, don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Dean took over.

“Wasn’t your usual fireball,” Framingham answered, his expression schooled into something casual but his voice giving way to his confusion, his disbelief of whatever had come next. “It was, um—”

The officer paused, as if he knew what he was about to say would sound crazy. Castiel remembered the singing angels at Chuck’s house, the holy vengeance coming down on him in the moment he thought he was going to die. He understood that incredulity.

“Pure white,” Castiel supplied softly. Framingham nodded, a small bit of relief softening around his eyes.

“Yeah. Gas station was leveled. Everyone was . . . it was just horrible,” he explained instead, his schooled expression starting to slip. “And I see this one guy, kneeling, real focused-like, not a damn scratch on him.”

“You know him?” Dean demanded.

“Donnie Finneman,” Framingham supplied. “Mechanic there.”

“Let me guess,” Dean began dryly. “He just vanished into thin air?”

Framingham sent Dean a look like _he_ was the one that sounded the most crazy. “No? He’s down at Saint Pete’s.”

“St. Pete’s,” Castiel said to himself, his internal compass pointing in the right direction automatically, and he pushed himself onto his feet. Dean followed him, like two magnets pulling each other along.

“Thank you,” Dean said, and then they were off.

~*~

Dean and Castiel stared through the hallway window in at a man sitting in a wheelchair, catatonic and drooling, staring at a television screen that wasn’t on. Dean’s lips were pursed thoughtfully, squinting at him.

“I take it that’s not Raphael,” Dean affirmed.

Castiel nodded, seeing the angelic grace still lingering on the man’s skin, but no sign of the archangel to be seen. “An empty vessel. But definitely a vessel.”

“So this is what I’m looking at if Michael jumps my bones?” Dean demanded, turning to Castiel with a smirk way too watered down with fear and anxiety. Castiel might’ve wanted to cry, if he had that kind of emotional response in him anymore. Dean turned back to the window, swallowing hard. “Probably worse, though, right? Since Michael’s head honcho and more powerful or whatever?”

“Dean,” Castiel began slowly. “I won’t let that happen to you. You’re not going to have to say yes.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean commented, not looking at Castiel. “What’s the plan now?”

It was an obvious change of topic, and Castiel was too tired to keep trying to convince Dean against something Dean was already dead-set in believing. Castiel considered that for a moment.

“I’m not sure,” Castiel replied honestly, tilting his head as he looked at the man. “We have a vessel of an archangel, which will be worth a lot to Raphael, as there aren’t many on Earth. We can potentially use this man to lure the archangel in, and then trap him. Potentially.”

“How the hell do you trap an archangel?” Dean demanded, frowning. “Or a normal angel, even?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel told him, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone, flipping through the address book before selecting the correct name and pressing it to his ear. “But I know someone who undoubtedly does.”

~*~

Castiel didn’t know what it was, but Dean always managed to find houses that were abandoned. It was an uncanny knack, since Castiel couldn’t tell the difference between one that’s well-lived and one that’s set for destruction from the outside, but Dean always seemed to see where the life was, and he steered them to where there wasn’t. It was in an abandoned house outside of town where they were sitting now, the two of them silently seated on opposite sides of a small table. There were a million topic-starters running through Castiel’s head, but none of them felt like a good place to begin. Dean just kept mindlessly flipping through his father’s journal, which he had sitting open in front of him, although Castiel could tell by the way his eyes were barely moving that he wasn’t even reading it.

Castiel was considering just opening his mouth to say something—to apologize again, to tell him to call Bobby, to tell him to call _Sam_ —when Balthazar appeared in the middle of the room, wearing his typical ripped jeans, v-neck, and leather jacket, clutching a ceramic jar in each hand. Castiel spotted him first, hearing the flapping of his wings and sensing the feel of angel incoming. Dean, however, lacked those abilities, and it took him an extra second before he looked up, and then jumped a mile to see that they had company.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Dean muttered through his teeth, turning to glare hard at Castiel. “Warn a guy next time!”

Balthazar whistled. “You gonna let him talk to you like that, Cassie?”

“His name is _Cas_ ,” Dean bit back, narrowing his eyes at the man. “Who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Balthazar,” Balthazar greeted, crossing to their table to set down the jars in between them. Balthazar shot Castiel an exaggerated wink that made Dean’s eye twitch. “I’m Cassie’s partner in crime. Charmed.”

“How was Jerusalem?” Castiel asked before Dean could volley back another retort, smothering his grin, almost a little vindictively pleased that Dean was getting jealous. Balthazar saw and hid a grin of his own, flashing into existence and then out between one second and the next. He shrugged in response to Castiel’s question, smirking.

“Arid,” he replied, looking back to Dean like he was under a microscope for a long set of silent moments before turning back to Castiel. “This is your bullet-shield, then? It won’t work. You know that as well as I do. The others have been talking.”

“I’ve heard them,” Castiel reminded him, tapping at his temple. “It’s all the chance we’ve got, Balthazar.”

“You’re going to get killed. Pretty boy might walk away, but Raphael was willing to smite you once and he’ll do it again, Righteous Man or not.”

“I have to try,” Castiel pleaded the same way he had when they had first heard the whispers about Raphael, when Castiel voiced his crazy idea to apprehension from Balthazar. Balthazar frowned at him, one of the most serious faces that Castiel had ever seen him wear on his face, and Castiel looked away to Dean. It wasn’t any better—Dean looked like he was ready to punch something, and the most likely candidate was wearing a v-neck.

“I told you it’s too dangerous,” Dean argued on Balthazar’s side, expected but still a little surprising, since Dean obviously wasn’t the other angel’s biggest fan. “And what the hell is all of this?”

He was prioritizing. Castiel could see the vitriol meant just for Balthazar on Dean’s lips, but he was asking important questions first, just in case. It was a very Dean thing to do but, at the same time, Castiel was tempted to kick Dean under the table.

“Holy oil,” Balthazar replied easily, tapping the urn-looking structures with his fingernail. “Very rare, very special. Only thing that can trap angels. Or, potentially, kill them. I’ve never heard of anyone burning an angel to death with it, but I don’t suppose that’s outside the realm of possibility.”

Dean turned to look at him, and Castiel shook his head. “No, Dean, we’re not doing that.”

“Good,” Dean affirmed, and then looked back to Balthazar, his mouth already turning down into a scowl just at looking at the man. “So we’re going to trap Raphael with a strawberry vinaigrette and hope for the best?”

“Astounding,” Balthazar remarked emotionlessly.

“In a way,” Castiel agreed, shooting Balthazar a warning look. “There’s a ritual involved, too. It’s gonna be kind of like—like trapping a hurricane with a butterfly net. Probably harder.”

“And this is the best plan you’ve got?” Dean demanded incredulously. He turned to stare at Balthazar, almost accusatorily like he should have talked Castiel out of this way before he got started, and Balthazar just shrugged like _what are you gonna do?_

“I know this may come as a shock, but no one’s ever before caught an archangel like a bloody Pokémon,” Balthazar replied icily, narrowing his eyes. “Your crazy beau here’s just going on blind faith and the belief _you’ll_ walk out of this. Believe me if I say that, if there was a way to talk him out of this, I would be doing it.”

“You do realize I’m sitting right here, right?” Castiel asked, blinking slowly. The two of them didn’t turn to look at him, staring each other down.

“I take it you’re not sticking around?” Dean asked, his voice dripping in disdain, and Balthazar’s mouth curled into a bitter smirk in response.

“Alas, I have plans to live to see tomorrow night,” Balthazar pretended to sigh, looking at a wrist absent of a watch. “In fact, I’m going to be late to a lovely meeting with a girl or four in France. I’ll best be off. Good luck storming the castle. Call me if you live, Cassie.”

Balthazar disappeared with one last wink and the rustle of wings taking flight. Castiel turned to look at Dean to find him still staring down the place where Balthazar had disappeared with angry eyes, like he wished that he could summon him back and smite him with just his will.

“Balthazar is strange,” Castiel finally admitted, “but he is a good friend, and a good ally.”

“He’s a piece of work,” Dean replied, turning his frown on Castiel. “Of all people?”

“He’s the only renegade angel I’ve accidentally happened on, for your information,” Castiel replied in a deadpan, and then offered Dean a smile, asking for him to stand down. Dean paused for a moment before allowing his shoulders to relax, taking a deep breath. Dean got up from the table to stand against it, leaning onto it and looking down at Castiel. Castiel immediately thought he knew where this was going, and tried hard not to smirk at how entirely unsubtle Dean is.

“We’ll talk about V-neck later,” Dean dismissed, tilting his head as he stared down at Castiel, a smirk curling tellingly at the edges of his mouth. “So. Last night on Earth. What could we possibly do?”

“Research?” Castiel replied false-solemnly. Dean _tsk_ ed him, shaking his head.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he announced. “How about a little cloud-seeding?”

Castiel burst out laughing and let out a scandalized, “Dean!”

“What?” Dean asked, way too innocently, the tone not matching the devious smirk and the way his eyes were a little too dark to be normal. Dean shifted ever-so closer, until one of his legs was touching one of Castiel’s. Dean shrugged. “I’m not gonna let you die a virgin.”

“You know well that I am not a virgin,” Castiel pointed out. Dean rolled his eyes.

“You’ve been re-hymenated, Cas,” Dean informed him, ignoring Castiel when he burst out into laughter again. He wagged his eyebrows. “You’re Heavenly pure. We should fix that. There’s a couch.”

“How romantic,” Castiel replied, but he couldn’t stop smiling. He glanced over at said couch, raising his eyebrows. “You sure know how to be a gentleman.”

“Tell me about it, stud,” Dean quoted, exaggerating a wink and not waiting until Castiel had stopped laughing before grabbing onto a hand and heaving him onto his feet, using Castiel’s misbalance to push him to the couch, letting him fall down on the cushions, staring up at Dean above him. Dean wagged his eyebrows. “Last night on Earth?”

“You’re so overdramatic,” Castiel replied, and then pulled Dean down to join him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story lives on. Oh boy.
> 
> My tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> x Kay

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> x Slang


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